Event (event group thrillers)
Page 48
"Breathe, my Captain, don't you leave me here in this black place!"
Padilla felt the warm water vomit from his stomach and lungs, and the pain hit him in earnest when he tried to replace the water with precious air. He felt his body spasm as his lungs slowly brought in the needed oxygen. A loud moan escaped his shivering lips, and he slowly brought in another breath.
Padilla rolled over and tried to sit up but failed miserably. Other hands quickly grabbed for him, and he was lifted to his feet. He looked over and saw that the two soldiers were Juan Navarro, a cook's assistant, and Javier Ramon, a blacksmith. The captain saw they were only feet from the waterfall. He looked up and saw where the water cascaded from somewhere high above. He coughed, trying to clear his throat of the remaining water in his throat. He saw Torrez standing at the small shore, staring out across the lagoon.
"The screaming of our men has stopped," he said without turning as Padilla approached and watched the distant, dwindling fires of their destroyed camp across the lagoon.
After a moment, Torrez took Padilla by his shoulders and turned him away from the distant scene of destruction. As they walked toward the wall of rock that ascended straight up from the lagoon and bordered the waterfall, Torrez knew they were being watched.
"Look," he softly spoke, not wanting to attract the attention of the other men.
Padilla looked up at the spot Torrez had indicated. Another of the statues carved into the wall looked down upon them. It resembled the same beast that had just attacked them, and the same as the two images that guarded the tributary. It had been hidden from their vantage point across the lagoon. This one was larger and it stood alone. How had they missed seeing it during the daylight hours? Padilla didn't know.
They both turned as they heard a loud splash in the water. The noise had come from their destroyed campsite. Both men watched and saw the ripples and large wake that was streaking toward their side of the lagoon.
"Captain, Lieutenant, there is a cave rising above the waterline under the falls," Navarro said as he approached. "You won't believe it, there are stairs."
Torrez turned and looked at the sheer cliff in front of them which held only the carved figure of the animal that was now their God of judgment. Then he looked down the shoreline at the distant jungle. Surely, whatever this creature was that was coming after them would surface long before they could reach the trees. He frantically looked around, and then pushed Navarro forward.
"Take us to this cave, soldier," he shouted as he started pulling Padilla after him.
The three men joined Ramon the blacksmith, who was waving for them to hurry. He had caught sight of the underwater demon as it sped to this side of the lagoon. As they came upon the waterfall, the roar drowned out all talk. Torrez looked up and then down at the point where the water struck the lagoon. Then he saw it. It was just a darker outline against the cliff face, but it was there. The cave rose about ten feet above the water and then disappeared into the depths. He saw no other choice. He dove headfirst into the water, the others, including Padilla, followed. They had to dive deep to avoid the crushing water of the falls, the vortex of which pushed them even further into the depths as they fought to swim into the dark and forbidding cave. As they disappeared, the creature changed its underwater course and swam toward the white water of the falls.
Two months later, a lone survivor was saved from the river. At first the Spaniards who discovered him thought him to be an Indian, but soon realized the man had been part of Captain Padilla's expedition. The men had struggled to carry the survivor back into Peru but knew they would never make it. Word was sent to Father Corinth and the survivor, knowing this, had miraculously clung to life. The man was dying from exposure and a strange sickness the men in camp didn't recognize but could only guess at. His only possession was a book the men had mistakenly taken for a Bible that the survivor held tightly to his injured chest. Every time they tried to relieve him of the book, the man would rise like a tiger to protect it. They even tried to pry his fingers from it when he had passed out, but that had proven just as futile.
When Father Corinth arrived at the small outpost with a rank of Pizarro's personal guard, the man was waiting for him, only he waited on his deathbed. For hours the lone survivor of the expedition spoke softly with Corinth. The priest had listened, never interrupting the soldier while he examined his wounds and nursed him through the strange sickness. As he spoke, gasping in inner pain and getting weaker for each word he managed to hiss out through clenched teeth, he reached into his tunic and withdrew two small objects. One was a large golden nugget. The other was a strange green mineral, a strange chalk-like substance imbedded in stone. It was strangely warm to the touch. The soldier pulled Corinth close to him, close enough that the priest could feel his high temperature rising from his face. A dire warning was told, barely audible and with fetid breath. Corinth removed his large cross from around his neck and removed the bottom portion. The inside of the cross was hollow and he easily slid the small mineral samples into it. The cross was made of a soft metal covered with gold, not only for beauty but to give the cheap metal more strength. It was of a sort the church frowned upon as being arrogant, but it had been a ceremonial gift from his dead mother given to him on the day he took his vows. It was very beautifully engraved and far too large, and she had spent every ounce of her meager savings to present him with it. He put the end back on the cross and placed it around his neck.
It was long after sunup when Father Corinth finally emerged from the small hut, and he carried the book with him.
"How is he, Father?" one of the soldiers asked. "Is there any news of our friends? Is Captain Padilla still alive?"
"The soldier is dead. His name was Ivan Torrez."
"Lieutenant Torrez? We know this man, he looked nothing like him," another soldier said as many of the escort gathered to hear the Father.
"The plague will change a man's features so you would not even recognize your own brother."
The men stepped away in fear. That one word was enough to weaken their knees and make the brave conquerors cringe.
Father Corinth brought the book to his chest and started to turn from the gathered soldiers.
"What of the expedition, Father, did he give a location of their whereabouts?"
He stopped and turned. "Captain Padilla and his men will stay where they are. Get your men ready to break camp, and bury Lieutenant Torrez deep. Honor him, he was a brave man," Corinth said as he bowed his head and crossed himself. The Padilla diary, which contained the unholy route the doomed expedition had charted, was clutched tightly to his chest.
He slowly moved away from the stunned men. The Father knew he would have to either destroy the diary and the map that would again take the greed of man to follow Padilla's directions, or bury them so deep no one could ever find them. The diary was the only proof of what wonders the captain had found under the falls of that lost lagoon, but because of men like Francisco Pizarro, the contents could never see the light of day. For only death could come to those that ventured into that dark lagoon and he would take it upon himself to make sure the pope sided with his decision.
A few months before the death of Francisco Pizarro, the general ordered one last expedition sent out to try and trace the route of Captain Padilla's ill-fated journey. The Spaniards found only helmets, rusted armor, rotted clothing, and broken swords on a path that stretched for thirty miles along the Amazon, which was clear evidence of a running battle with an enemy that had since disappeared into the jungle. The trail leading to the deep tributary that led to that dark and beautiful lagoon was never found. As for the men of Padilla's brave band, the Spaniards never found a trace of them or the gold they had sought. Pizarro, in what little time remained to him, would continue to lust for El Dorado. But in the end another generation of explorers and adventurers would have to do the searching.
Rumors of the lost expedition of Captain Padilla filtered down through the years, and even a few old artifac
ts turned up from time to time as the jungle begrudgingly gave up her digested secrets. Whatever lived in that forgotten lagoon would wait patiently for men to come into its realm once again.
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